Page 31 of How (Not) to Conjure a Boyfriend
“No, seriously. I’m trying to figure out why,” he says. “I could see him liking your eyes. I didn’t realize they were different colors until you came to Thanksgiving. I’d only seen them from a distance before. They’re actually pretty.”
I swallow and use every inch of my willpower not to freeze in place. He noticed my eyes. And they’repretty? He thinks my eyes are pretty? Wait, what?
“A distance?” I tilt my head.
“Uh, forget about it.” He nearly trips.
“Okay.” I let it hang there. Weird. “You’re not flirting with me, are you?”
Knowing me, I probably wouldn’t realize it if he actually were. Isn’t that a thought. Hayden’s little brother flirting with his fake enbyfriend.
“What? No!” he blurts and straightens his back. He dribbles the ball again and goes back for another layup. When his feet hit the ground, he throws me the ball. “Of course not!”
“Good, because I like your brother.” I put force into my words, trying my hardest not to cringe when I blurt the L word.You didn’t have to be so forceful about it.“Maybe I’m not his quote-unquote perfect type, but we’re fine. He likes me like I am. And I like him as he is!”
“Uh…” Zachary’s eyes are astonished. I don’t think he expected this from such a small package. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“’Kay.” I nod. “Let’s just play, okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” He nods.
When he turns to take up his spot at the goal line, I linger a little on his face and notice how plump his lips are. They’re a calm pink with a natural pooch to them, and in a split second of uncontrolled thought, I wonder what they’d taste like.
“No!” I yelp.
“Huh?” Zachary jumps and throws the basketball.
It bounces off to my left and I’m left standing speechless in front of him, mouth clamped tightly shut, fists balled up and pressed against my sides. Shit. I didn’t mean to scream it!
“N-no.” I scramble to come up with something, anything. “Let me serve.”
“I’m sorry, what?” His head twitches to the side and he smiles. “Serve? You want to serve the basketball?”
“Uh…” I’m struggling hard. I don’t even know what sport you serve in, but I know it isn’t basketball. Refusing to let the shame show on my face, I go stone-faced. “You know what I mean.”
“Sure.” He nods and passes me the ball.
I nod and pass him to get to the goal line. Suddenly it’s all I can do to look away, as images I don’t need flash in my head.
I grip my necklace just before turning to face him. Just play basketball.
11
Unknown: This is Zach Marcus. Wanted to apologize for Sunday.
Apologize?
A lone gray text bubble sits at the top of my screen under a phone number I’ve never seen before, but there’s no mistaking who it is. Hayden’s brother. Zachary. And he wants to apologize? That should probably be my job.
The words feel like they’re haunting me, begging for a reply. I must be taking too long, because the bubbles start strobing at the bottom of the window.
Unknown: Hayden’s brother.
I roll my eyes. I figured that out. It isn’t that hard. I don’t know too many Zach Marcuses. I grunt as my head meets the thickly painted white cinderblock wall at the back of the classroom. Mr. Shook, my ancient Biology teacher, drones on about how adaptations can take hundreds, thousands, or even millions of years. He was probably there when the peppered moths he has projected on the screen adapted back in the Industrial Revolution.
I tap the screen to start typing out a reply. I pause. What do I say though?Okayjust seems blunt. Not to mention, what is he apologizing for?
Mackenzie: I know who you are. And apologize for what?
